Standish House
by Jigamarootoo
Summary: Ezra Standish runs a house for orphaned boys...with six mischevious and unique charges.
1. Disclaimers

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This story began several months ago but was stalled somewhat. My muse was being evil g. Anyhoo, I restarted it a few days ago and thought I'd start posting it here on FanFiction.Net and see what people say. The first few chapters have previously appeared on the Mag7kids Yahoo!group. If it seems familiar, that is where you may have seen it before, although as I said it has been quite a while.  
  
None of these characters belong to me.  
  
This universe is closed for now, at least until I am finished with my "meet the boys" stories.  
  
All of that said, Enjoy!  
  
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	2. Introduction

"Mr. Ezra, Mr. Ezra!" Four-year-old JD Dunne was breathless as he ran up to his guardian and the owner of the boy's home where he lived.  
  
"What is it, JD?"  
  
"Buck 'n' Chris are fightin' again."  
  
Ezra pinched the bridge of his nose; would those two never stop? "Thank you, JD. I'll take care of it. You can go play now."  
  
"'Kay!" The precocious dark-haired toddler trotted off, satisfied that he had done his duty.  
  
Ezra moved in the opposite direction, intent on breaking up the latest of countless conflicts between Buck Wilmington and Chris Larabee, both seven. They were close friends most of the time, but every so often, all hell broke loose between them. When that happened only Ezra seemed to be able to make them see reason.  
  
Sure enough, the two boys were by the rope swing, screaming at each other at the top of their lungs. "Buck, you shut up! I did not!"  
  
"Did too, Chris, I seen you!"  
  
"Did not!"  
  
"Did too!"  
  
At this point, Chris lunged at Buck and they fell to the ground, rolling around like puppies wrestling.  
  
"ENOUGH!" So rarely did Ezra raise his voice that it was an effective deterrent to the boys' tussling. "What is going on here?"  
  
Buck and Chris pointed to each other and started talking at the same time. "He started it!"  
  
Now Ezra was positive that a migraine was forming itself behind his eyes. "Buck you go first. What did you see Chris do?"  
  
The blue-eyed boy thought for a moment. "Y'know, I can't remember!"  
  
Ezra turned to Chris. "Well?"  
  
"If he can't remember, I ain't tellin' ya."  
  
Ezra threw his hands up in the air. "I give up! All day long I try to mold these young minds so that they will become fine, upstanding, law-abiding adults, and what thanks do I get? None whatsoever. I declare, Mother is right. I am wasting my talents..." He walked off, mumbling to himself and occasionally shaking his head in disgust.  
  
Buck nudged Chris. "Sorry."  
  
"Yeah, me too." After a moment, the little blond added, "You think he's lost his marbles this time?"  
  
Buck studied the slim figure standing a ways off. He was gesturing wildly to the empty air and it was obvious even at this distance that he was still complaining to himself. "Yeah, I think maybe he has."  
  
Both boys giggled.  
  
A moment later, as they gleefully watched Ezra work himself into a state, the soft chime of the dinner bell met their ears. All three began to head to the main building where the dining hall was housed. It couldn't really be called a hall, since it only held ten people, but Ezra insisted. He said it sounded more genteel.  
  
Ezra ushered the boys into the washroom first. "You two are filthy. Wash off your faces and those grimy little hands, or Mrs. Wells won't give you any dinner." It was not an empty threat. Nettie Wells, cook and housekeeper for Standish House, did not stand for dirty little boys to be at her table.  
  
Buck and Chris obeyed, scrubbing until their round faces and plump hands were rosy and shining.  
  
"Good job. Now, let's eat, shall we?"  
  
All three walked into the dining hall, the boys trailing behind a now-calm Ezra. The remaining residents of Standish House were already seated and waiting for them. Upon seeing Ezra, they chorused dutifully, "Good evening, Mr. Ezra."  
  
"Good evening, everyone." Ezra took his customary seat at the head of the long table. To his right was seated Josiah Sanchez. Josiah was the oldest boy at Standish House, having just had his eleventh birthday. His mother had died some years ago, and Josiah's father had abused him so severely that he was removed from the horrible man's care and placed in Ezra's. He had a twin sister, Hannah, who resided in a nearby convent.  
  
On Ezra's other side was ten year old Nathan Jackson. Though Josiah was the oldest boy, Nathan had been under Ezra's care the longest. He had been purchased at a Georgia slave auction by Ezra when he was four after it was explained that his parents had both passed away. He had immediately been freed, but remained under Ezra's guardianship because he had nowhere else to go.  
  
Next to Nathan was Chris Larabee. Chris' story was perhaps the saddest of all six boys. Chris' mother and father, Sarah and Adam Larabee, had been killed in a house fire when he was five. As if that weren't enough, he'd lost his only other relative, a cousin, scarcely a month later. He'd never really recovered from their deaths, though the healing had been accelerated by the boy on his other side.  
  
That boy was five-year-old Vincent Tanner, who adamantly insisted on being called Vin. He and Chris had formed an instant bond, a strange connection that no one could quite explain. It was as if they were one soul in two bodies. Vin's past was almost totally unknown. He had been found living with a tribe of Comanche Indians, being raised as the son of one of their braves. The U.S. Army had taken it upon themselves to "rescue" the blue- eyed boy, and had thereby, Ezra suspected, ripped him away from the only family he'd ever known. Trust came slowly for young Vin, but once you had it, it was unwavering.  
  
Seated next to Josiah was seven year old Buck Wilmington, or 'that rascal' as he was more often called. Buck was brimming with mischief, always ready to participate in a game or a practical joke. Though often teasing, he was never malicious, and in fact was probably the softest-hearted of the six young boys. Buck's mother had been a lady of the night, and his father was unknown. Despite the social stigmas automatically placed on the odd family, Buck's mother had done a fine job of raising her son. A more polite or caring boy couldn't be found. Tragically, she had been murdered by a violent john in front of her son less than a year earlier. Buck still had horrendous nightmares about that night.  
  
The last of the boys was John David Dunne, called JD. He was about four, though his age was not for certain. He'd been found wandering the streets of Denver, Colorado alone. A thorough search turned up no relatives, and since no one had reported a missing child, Ezra had agreed to take him in. He was a ball of energy, perpetual motion personified. He and Buck had instantly taken to each other, and often informed visitors that they were "for-real brothers." JD had only been at Standish House for a few months.  
  
Though all of the six boys were basically without family, none were currently available for adoption. They had been placed in Ezra's care permanently by one Judge Orrin Travis, before the good judge retired from his position. Despite what most people thought, they could have no better or more caring guardian than the former gambler.  
  
After Ezra was settled, he raised his hand for silence. "Whose turn is it to say the blessing?"  
  
"Mine." Vin's hesitant voice reached his ears.  
  
"Alright, Vin, go ahead."  
  
The soft-spoken boy bowed his head, long brown curls obscuring his vision. "Creator, we thank ya fer yer love an' fer blessin' us with all this here bounty. A-men."  
  
Ezra had to conceal a smile. Between his Native American teaching and his Texas accent, Vin's prayers were always something to be remembered.  
  
Blessing over, bowls and platters began being passed around the table. Vin scowled slightly when he was handed the bowl of greens. Ezra spoke firmly but not unkindly. "Eat them, Vin. They're good for you."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
The meal was eaten in relative silence, until Ezra spoke again. "I'm going into town tomorrow."  
  
The noise that followed was deafening. All six boys began clamoring to be allowed to go along.  
  
Ezra raised his hand, and they quieted instantly. "All of you are going. Winter is coming and you're all going to need new shoes."  
  
JD's eyes went wide. "Shoes? You mean store-bought shoes? For real ones?"  
  
Ezra felt his heart twinge. Sometimes JD was so exuberant that it was hard to remember the sufferings he'd most likely endured. He'd clearly never had a new pair of shoes before. "Yes, JD, real ones. We can't have you running around barefoot once the snow comes."  
  
Vin scowled. "Indian braves don't wear shoes."  
  
"Yes, well, you are not an Indian brave. You are a little boy, and you are going to wear shoes." Secretly, Ezra was pleased that Vin was comfortable enough to complain about the vegetables and the need of shoes. For too long he'd been afraid of being punished severely if he ever disobeyed. No one was quite sure where that came from, because Indians rarely, if ever, beat their children. He must have developed that particular fear before his "abduction."  
  
Chris and Buck, meanwhile, were grinning at each other. They'd been carefully saving their allowance for the next time they got to go to town. A slingshot in Mrs. Potter's store had been calling to them for months. They had just enough.  
  
Nathan was smiling too, though for a different reason. He was looking forward to finding out whether his new book had come. Young Nathan seemed as drawn to the written word as most children were to mischief. He especially loved books about science and the human body. He'd confided to Ezra that he wanted to be a doctor when he grew up.  
  
Early the next morning the stable hands had the wagon hitched up as well as Nathan and Josiah's horses. Both were old enough to ride by themselves, a fact that bothered Chris and Buck to no end. Ezra drove the wagon carrying the four younger boys.  
  
Except for the normal playful tussling and half-hearted arguments, the ride to town was uneventful. The boys paired off once they arrived in town, as usual. Chris and Buck went off together to get their slingshot, Josiah took JD to explore the town, and Nathan took Vin to the post office to check on his book. These were not necessarily the pairs the boys would have chosen for themselves, but Ezra didn't want Vin or JD off with Chris or Buck alone. The two seven year olds were too young to keep a proper eye on them. Together, though, he could usually count on them to behave.  
  
As it turned out, Chris and Buck weren't the ones he had to worry about. ~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~* 


	3. Nathan's Story

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Emma, Mrs. Cahill, and Old Man Anderson (no, not the Colonel) all belong to me, but none of the others do.  
  
I am making no profit from this story.  
  
This is technically Nathan's story, though we find out a great deal about Ezra as well.  
  
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When 23-year-old Ezra Standish stepped of the train in Atlanta, Georgia, he did not expect the first thing he would see to be a slave auction. Slave traders and plantation owners were everywhere, bartering over prices and bickering over the quality of the human goods they dealt.  
  
The young man looked around in confusion. He had been told that his mother would meet him here, but it appeared she had either changed her mind or been delayed somehow. With a longsuffering sigh, he gathered up his baggage and headed to the nearby train depot to ask directions to lodgings for the night. He was directed to a clean and well-cared for, if rather small, boarding house owned by a widow named Mrs. Cahill.  
  
As it turned out, the widow's husband had been killed some years earlier in a small outbreak of mumps and had left the house to her as his only legacy. Ezra was more than happy to take a room, as he had no idea how long his mother would be or if she would actually show up. He had slept on the street before but had not particularly enjoyed the experience and did not care to repeat it.  
  
Once Ezra was settled in his room, he departed to explore the city he hadn't visited in many years. He received several odd looks, which didn't bother him unduly. He knew that most young men his age were soldiers fighting for the Confederacy, but Ezra had never been much of a fighter. He preferred wits to guns as weapons, besides which he wasn't entirely certain he agreed with the South beyond a certain loyalty to the land of his birth. For him, the practice of keeping slaves was abhorrent and the treatment said people received even more so. But, being a proud Georgian, he could not allow himself to join the Union, and so he fought not at all.  
  
Ezra's wanderings brought him back to the auction, where he walked around more to see the sights than experience the buying and selling going on around him. He had grown up with slavery, and while he didn't particularly like it, it certainly wasn't foreign to him.  
  
However, one piece of 'merchandise' caught his eyes and he found he couldn't tear his gaze away. Said item was a small boy, perhaps three or four years of age, with cocoa skin, glossy black curls, and eyes like pieces of charcoal. Those eyes met Ezra's and he was powerless to stop the quickening beat of his heart he felt as he looked into them. There was something ageless in those eyes, something that he recognized from the face he saw in the mirror every day.  
  
It was called Dignity.  
  
Ezra had developed it as a defense mechanism against the constant disappointments life had thrown his way. His mother had never been what you might call maternal; indeed in his early years he'd rarely seen her. At some of the houses he'd stayed at he'd been treated no better than the captive people he was now surrounded by. Dignity was something he'd clung to, the only thing his abusive uncles, stepfathers, and sometimes strangers couldn't take away from him. He suspected that this boy had developed it for the same reason.  
  
Upon closer examination he realized that the child's clothes were ragged and he had no shoes. Though September in Georgia was not as cool as in some of the more northern states, there was still a distinct chill in the air and the boy had to be cold. Ezra shivered in sympathy.  
  
He almost didn't recognize his own voice as it impulsively asked the hawker, "What can you tell me about that boy?"  
  
"Ah, the gentleman has made an excellent choice. This slave is four years old. He has been trained as a house slave, but he is young and can be taught other tasks. He is healthy and strong, and is good for many years of work."  
  
Ezra turned his expressionless face to the merchant. "Where is his family?"  
  
The rather portly older man shrugged. "Sold away or dead, I expect. He came into my possession alone."  
  
"What is his name?"  
  
"His last master's name was Jackson, but you can call him whatever you want."  
  
Ezra didn't show it, but the man's callousness sickened him. This was a child, for pity's sake, scarcely more than a baby, and no one even cared enough to learn his name. There was no excuse for such crude behavior. Well, Ezra could remedy that immediately. "How much?" The price named by the slave trader was nearly every penny Ezra currently had, but to him it was worth it. "Done."  
  
The man grinned greedily and practically snatched the gold from Ezra's hand. "Get down here, boy!" He yanked the child rather roughly from the crate he stood on and held his shoulder with an unnecessarily tight grip. "You belong to this man, now, hear? You do whatever he says."  
  
Ezra removed the man's hand with a painful move he'd learned while traveling in East Asia with one of Maude's many husbands. "You take your hands off that boy; he doesn't belong to you anymore."  
  
The salesman winced and tried to weasel out of Ezra's hands. "Yes, sir, he's yours now. I am sorry."  
  
Ezra dismissed him with a sniff and knelt to face the boy he'd just purchased. "What's your name?"  
  
"Mama called me Nathan." He talked remarkably well for someone so young.  
  
"Alright then, Nathan, my name is Ezra and that is how you may address me."  
  
"Yes, sir, Master Ezra."  
  
The young man regarded the child he now owned, wondering what on earth he was going to do with him. Another, even more frightening question popped into his mind. 'What will Mother say?'  
  
Without even giving thought to the appearance it would present, Ezra took the small hand and began leading the child towards his boarding house. He was oblivious to the scandalized whispers and venomous stares sent his way by others on the street.  
  
Ezra sat down on his bed, still staring at the small boy who was now standing uncertainly by the door. It was several minutes before he realized his scrutiny was scaring the child. "Nathan, come here." Nathan walked over slowly and stood next to his new master. "Do you know where your Mama and Daddy are?"  
  
Ezra caught the telltale shimmer of tears in the soft brown eyes before Nathan dropped his head. "Mama went to Heaven and Daddy went away."  
  
Well, that did it. Black or white, slave or free, Ezra had never been able to stand the sight of a child in pain. He reached out and gently drew the small body close to his own. "It's okay now. I'm here. I'll take care of you."  
  
At first the skinny body was stiff in his arms, but then all of a sudden Nathan allowed himself to relax into the embrace and great, wracking sobs overtook his small frame. Ezra simply hugged him closer, whispering mindless words of reassurance and rubbing the heaving back in comforting circles.  
  
This went on for nearly thirty minutes, and when Nathan finally pulled away his small face was damp but nowhere near as frightened. "You're not like the others."  
  
"What others, Nathan?"  
  
"The other men. They were mean. They hitted my Mama and made her go to Heaven."  
  
Ezra sucked in a horrified breath. Sonofagun. Nathan's mother had been beaten to death, probably by her master or his overseer. "No one can ever hurt her...or you...again. I promise, and a Standish is a man of his word."  
  
He was rewarded with a flash of brilliant white teeth as Nathan smiled his gratitude, and in that moment Ezra's frozen heart started to thaw.  
  
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Maude Standish, aka Mary Simpson, aka Marge Smith, checked into the finest hotel Atlanta had to offer. While the hotel clerk was arranging for the care of her bags, she surreptitiously checked the register and recognized none of the names as a potential alias for her son. She scowled. He'd been told to meet her here. The thought that he's stay anywhere but the best never crossed her mind.  
  
However, knowing in her devious heart that he'd never be able to resist spending time with her, she set off in search of her only child. She went first to the train depot, correctly assuming that he would have asked here about lodgings. The clerk behind the desk told her that he'd directed the young man she was describing to the Widow Cahill's boarding house.  
  
She stalked off down the street, her striking green eyes flashing. A boarding house? Maude Standish's baby boy was staying in a common boarding house? What was he thinking? Didn't he even consider what such a thing would do to his reputation? To hers?  
  
By the time she arrived she had worked up a right good anger. She entered the boarding house as if she were the Queen of England and it and all its residents were her subjects. "I demand to know the number of the room in which my son is staying!"  
  
The Widow Cahill was unimpressed by Maude's superior carriage and her demanding tone. "Madame, I own this establishment and I don't give out information about my boarders without their permission."  
  
Maude gave her the once-over and summarily dismissed her. "Then I shall find him myself." She turned towards the stairs but was immediately gratified to see her boy already coming down them "Ezra!"  
  
The young man winced, fully aware of the reaction his mother's voice was having on both him and the child now cowering behind him. "Mother. Good to see you."  
  
She grabbed his arm and pulled him the rest of the way down the stairs and into a private sitting room. "What are you dong here?" she hissed.  
  
Ezra straightened his lapel nonchalantly. "I was under the impression, dear Mother, that you wanted to meet me here."  
  
Maude wanted desperately to slap the smug look off her son's face, but as she was constantly reminding him, appearances were everything. Her genteel charade would be shattered if she let her temper get the best of her. "I mean, why aren't you in a hotel?"  
  
"Mother, contrary to what you might think, neither one of us is rich. This place is the best I could get with my limited funds. Not to mention I made a rather impulsive purchase earlier today that just may demand my departure from even these rather," He searched for the right word, "...Spartan accommodations."  
  
The older woman narrowed her eyes. "What sort of purchase?"  
  
Ezra gestured to the urchin still clinging to his leg. "Mother, meet Nathan."  
  
To say Maude Standish was astonished would by like saying the Atlantic Ocean was a little damp. "You...you...bought a slave? Ezra, whatever were you thinking?"  
  
"I was thinking that I could not let a defenseless child be subjected to the cruelty of inhuman bondage any longer than he already had been. It was foolhardy, I admit, but my conscience would allow me to do nothing else."  
  
"I thought I had taught you not to let a little thing like that control your actions," she said of his mention of conscience.  
  
"Apparently you were wrong."  
  
Maude was actually trembling with fury. "Well, congratulations. You have successfully ruined my plans. I cannot care for a child. I had hoped you could help me woo a certain gentleman I've been keeping tabs on, but now I see that won't be possible. Ezra, I simply cannot understand why you delight in seeing me impoverished. We made such a good team, and now you have chosen a stray darkie waif over your own mother." She rubbed her forehead delicately, looking for all the world like a helpless wilting flower about to swoon.  
  
Ezra knew better. His drawl was brittle and cold as ice when he replied. "Mother, I do not expect you to care for this child, since I remember quite well how inept you are at that particular task. In addition, just to clarify, I do not care about your plans or your mark, or whether you get to wear fine silk or cheap cotton. You know as well as I do that you would never allow yourself to starve, so I have nothing to worry about there. I am a man now, Mother, and I do not have to play your little games anymore. Good day." Just before Ezra strode out the door, Nathan at his heels, he turned for one last comment. "Oh, and Mother? Do be a dear and watch what you say about my boy."  
  
Ezra and Maude didn't speak again for four years.  
  
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Six months later, Ezra Standish and Nathan Jackson stepped off the stagecoach and gazed around the dusty town in which they'd arrived. Ezra looked down at his small charge. "Doesn't look like much, does it?"  
  
Nathan shrugged, slipping his little brown hand into Ezra's pale one. "It's smaller than Denver."  
  
"Is that good or bad?"  
  
Nathan looked up. "Denver had too many people."  
  
Ezra smiled and nodded. "Let's stay here a while, then, and see what happens. How does that sound?"  
  
Nathan nodded his agreement, and, as had become their custom, they headed to the nearest building to ask directions for a boarding house. That building happened to be a saloon.  
  
Inside the dim and smoky room, cowhands and working girls seemed to fill every corner. Nathan inched closer to Ezra until he was pressed up against the young man's leg. Ezra patted his back softly. "It's alright, I'm here. I won't ever let anything happen to you."  
  
Nathan didn't look up but his quiet voice met Ezra's ears nonetheless. "I know."  
  
Though those two words sent a thrill of happiness through Ezra's body, he pushed the feeling away until he could deal with it properly later. He now searched the place for someone who looked as though they would be helpful. The barkeep seemed as likely a prospect as any, so the bar was where Ezra and Nathan headed. Halfway there, their path was intercepted by a tiny child, barely able to walk, with dark hair and mischievous blue eyes. He was closely pursued by a working girl in a low-cut maroon dress, a few years younger than Ezra. "Buck! Bucklyn James Wilmington, you stop right there!"  
  
The baby looked up at Ezra, grinned wickedly, and toddled on his way. The woman followed, casting a quick apology up at the amused Southerner. "I'm sorry, sir, but my Buck does have a mind of his own."  
  
"Quite alright, madame, I have a boy of my own and I know exactly what you mean."  
  
She flashed him a smile, which faltered when she saw the boy to which he was undoubtedly referred. "He's your son?"  
  
"Well, not by blood, obviously, but close enough. I'm all he has." And vice- versa, he added silently.  
  
She momentarily stopped her chase and stood up straight to face him. "Sir, I think it'd be best if you left now."  
  
Ezra bristled. "Excuse me?"  
  
She hastened to explain. "Not that I care. You're welcome here as far as I'm concerned, but there's others who aren't so accepting. A white man with a colored child isn't exactly something you see around here every day. There's those who might do something drastic to make you move on."  
  
Ezra glanced around, noticing for the first time the openly hostile glares being sent his way. "Perhaps you are right. Is there a boarding house of some sort in town we could occupy for a few days? We had thought of settling here."  
  
She nodded. "About five miles west of here there's the old Anderson place. It's not much, but it'd be a roof over your head and I think you and your boy would be safer there than here in town. Feelings have been runnin' high since President Lincoln freed all the slaves."  
  
Ezra smiled. "Thank you. You've been most kind, Miss...?"  
  
"Wilmington. Emma Lou Wilmington."  
  
"I am Ezra Standish and this is Nathan Jackson."  
  
And so a new and very dear friendship was born.  
  
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Over the next year, Ezra and Emma grew closer and closer, He had asked permission to formally court the girl several times, and had even gone so far as to propose, but each time she refused. She wouldn't expose him to further ostracism because of her profession. He suffered enough from the prejudices of townsfolk who objected to Nathan. Though Lincoln had freed the slaves, it would be a long, hard road before Negros earned equal rights, and there would always be people who looked down on them for the color of their skin.  
  
However, her refusals did not stop him from spending as much time with her and Buck as possible. The little boy's first word was Mama, but his second was Ezra. And, Emma had withdrawn the promise from Ezra that if anything ever happened to her, he'd take in her boy and raise him as his own.  
  
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Exactly a year after moving in to old man Anderson's boarding house, Ezra was shocked and saddened to find the kind old man slumped dead in his favorite chair. He had no living relatives and, since Ezra and Nathan had been his only boarders in years, he left the big house to them. When Ezra recovered from that unexpected blessing, an idea started to form in his head. As a child, he'd often been left with total strangers while his mother had been running a con. However, on one or two occasions, he'd been forced to spend a short amount of time in orphanages. He remembered all too well how squalid and unwelcoming those places could be. He remembered the nights he went to bed hungry and cold because there weren't enough blankets and food to go around.  
  
Finally he came to a decision. He and Nathan didn't need such a large, roomy house just for themselves. So, he would open a sort of orphanage, for boys only, where they could run and play and be normal children. He still gambled enough to keep up a decent income, supplemented by various ranchers that hired him to break their more troublesome horses. He'd always had a way with animals and children, and this way he figured he'd have the best of both worlds.  
  
A young couple named Travis had just moved into town and opened a newspaper. He was becoming friends with both Stephen and Mary, and was rather fond of their baby boy, Billy, who was a little younger than Buck. He'd heard that Stephen's father was a federal judge and began wondering if perhaps the older man would be willing to help him put his thoughts to action.  
  
It would take two more years, but his vision would indeed come to be with the arrival of the troubled eight-year-old son of a preacher.  
  
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A/N - Josiah's story coming soon!  
  
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	4. Josiah's Story

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Renaldo, Miriam, and Emma all belong to me, but none of the others do.  
  
I am making no profit from this story.  
  
This story is my third in the Standish House AU. It tells of how Josiah came to live with Ezra.  
  
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Renaldo Sanchez thumped his already battered pulpit with a powerful fist. His congregation watched with wide, awed eyes and listened intently to his message of fire and brimstone. They were totally drawn in by the handsome features and flashing dark eyes of the big preacher.  
  
Two other sets of eyes were filled with fear rather than awe. These eyes belonged to the Reverend's seven year old twins Hannah and Josiah. They knew from experience that when their father got this wound up at church they'd suffer for it later.  
  
They weren't wrong.  
  
That night, while he was struggling with the stubborn hand pump at their sink, Josiah's small hand slipped and he knocked a vase off the kitchen counter. It fell to the floor with a horrifying crash, making both the boy and his sister jump. Both knew what was coming when heavy footsteps could immediately be heard from the direction of their father's room.  
  
Josiah thought quickly. "Hannah, get out!"  
  
"No, Jojo, I won't leave you."  
  
"Get out now or he'll hurt you too. Go hide in the barn 'til I say it's safe." When she still hesitated, he grabbed her and shoved her towards the back door. "GO!"  
  
Hannah went.  
  
After their mother's death two years earlier, the children's father had gotten more and more violent. It seemed that she was the only thing standing between him and the devil he so adamantly preached against. He nearly went insane after she was taken away. Though on Sunday morning he ranted and raved about the demons in alcohol, on Sunday night he could be found passed out in his living room, empty whiskey bottle dangling from calloused fingers.  
  
It was the in-between times his children feared.  
  
Members of the Reverend Sanchez' flock had seen the bruises and scars on the children's bodies, of course, but had turned a blind eye because they couldn't believe such an awful thing of their beloved preacher. Unfortunately, even those who were suspicious were too cowed by the will of others to do anything about it. So, each night, Josiah and Hannah went home in fear and nearly every morning they woke up with a new bruise to add to the collection. Josiah protected his twin sister as best he could, but he was still only seven and even though he was big for his age he was no match for the huge man that threatened them.  
  
This night was no different than any other. Josiah knew what had been happening in the bedroom: his father had gotten out his mother's picture and been drinking whiskey to try to dull the pain that cropped up whenever he saw her face. As usual, he blamed Josiah and Hannah for her death. Miriam Sanchez had died while trying to give birth to the couple's third child. Neither had survived. Renaldo completely overlooked the fact that he'd caused his wife's pregnancy to begin with. Instead, he saw his remaining children and hated them for coming from the same painful process that stole his wife away. So, naturally, when his anger cropped up they took it as was their rightful due, at least in his alcohol clouded mind. It never even occurred to him that sometimes such things just happen and no one was to blame.  
  
Josiah frantically tried to clean the vase up before his father arrived, but it was no use. There were simply too many miniscule fragments. He never noticed the cuts adorning his small fingers, only the fact that he'd failed once again to stave off his father's violence.  
  
Renaldo took in the scene through narrow, bloodshot eyes. He snarled silently and grabbed his young son by the front of his shirt. "You worthless little piece of...! What the hell did you do?"  
  
"I-I'm sorry, Father. It was an accident. I'll clean it up."  
  
"You're damn right you will! Clumsy little brat, aren't you? I'll beat that devil outta you yet, boy."  
  
He threw Josiah forcefully against the cabin wall, knocking the breath from his lungs with an audible 'oomph.' Even before the boy had regained his breath, his father was on him, driving those huge fists into his thin body and kicking his unprotected ribs. Josiah squeezed his eyes shut and prayed fitfully for a release from the hell that was his life. The relief never came but at least the effort kept him from crying out in pain, something that would only anger Renaldo further.  
  
When the preacher's anger finally ebbed away, he left Josiah in a broken heap on the floor.  
  
It was quite some time before the seven year old worked up the courage and energy to struggle to his feet. He knew all too well the feeling of broken ribs, and recognized it now. He gingerly prodded his face and came to the painful conclusion that his cheekbone was broken...again. The rest of his injuries seemed to mainly consist of bruises, which he quickly dismissed as unimportant. His slight limp he ignored as he cleaned the rest of the mess up as swiftly as his ribs allowed and carried it out to the trash pile behind the house.  
  
He then fetched Hannah from her hiding place in the barn. "Hannah!" He hissed in a pained whisper, hoping his father wouldn't hear. He didn't want her to get hurt too.  
  
A tousled blonde head peeked around the door of the loft. "Jojo?"  
  
"It's safe now. I think Father went to bed."  
  
She crept down and gasped in horror when she saw the mess that was her twin's face. "Oh, Jojo!"  
  
"I'm okay, Hannah, let's just go in to bed. I'll be better in the morning."  
  
Her small face twisted in anger. "I'll kill him."  
  
Josiah's blue eyes widened. "Hannah, ssshh! If he hears you..."  
  
"I don't care." Righteous anger filled the high-pitched voice. "I'd like to stab him in the heart with a knife."  
  
Josiah was speechless with shock. He had somehow convinced himself that he deserved what his father gave him. It honestly didn't occur to him that his father was wrong; only that he was stupid and clumsy and needed to behave better to avoid the beatings. Hannah, on the other hand, would not be cowed. She fought back every single time her father attacked her, and would never believe that he was in the right. Her spirited denials only made Renaldo angrier, but she hadn't backed down yet and it made her twin afraid for her.  
  
Despite her resolve to kill her father, though, Hannah couldn't do it, not while he was sleeping. For one thing, she wasn't strong enough. She had always been small for her age, and though they were both seven, she looked about four where her brother was the size of most ten year olds. In addition, she wanted to take her revenge while the Reverend was awake, so she could enjoy the look in his eyes as she got him back for every single bruise she'd ever received. A bit bloodthirsty for a seven year old, true, but her mother had always said that Hannah had more gumption than most grownups. She was as set in her way of thinking as her father, though her beliefs were quite the opposite of his. So she waited for the day she was big enough to fight her father off in one of his drunken rages and end the beatings once and for all.  
  
That day was another year in coming, and it didn't work out quite as she'd hoped.  
  
~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*  
  
Only three weeks had passed since the twins turned eight. Both had grown in the past year, especially Josiah. He was tall and already had the beginnings of the powerful shoulders and broad chest adulthood would bring. Hannah was still quite small, though her strong will more than made up for her stature.  
  
Renaldo had not gotten over his habit of drinking, and both Hannah and Josiah had the marks to prove it. Josiah still sent his sister to the barn whenever their father got angry, and so spared her a great deal of the pain he suffered.  
  
One unseasonably warm night in May, however, that all changed. Renaldo was raging about the fact that Hannah had burnt his biscuits and was busy working up a good anger by smashing furniture when Josiah thrust Hannah out the door. As always, he assured her, "I'll come get you when it's safe."  
  
However, this night, Hannah had no intention of waiting. She went to the barn, alright, but she only stayed long enough to grab the hand-axe her father used to chop wood in the winter. She returned stealthily to the house just in time to see her father backhand her twin across the face. Josiah landed awkwardly on his right arm, and the snapping of bone was unmistakable. She barely heard the cry of pain Josiah let out, only the roaring that filled her ears. She stormed into the house, axe swinging furiously. She was barely aware when she hit her father in the leg, opening a gash that went all the way to the bone. She didn't notice when he yanked the axe from her hands. A tiny wildcat propelled herself at his face, clawing and screaming in fury. Renaldo responded by grabbing her by the throat and lifting her above his head. Still she would not back down, so he roared like a lion and threw her into their fireplace. Her head cracked on the unyielding stone mantle, and blood instantly began coating the blonde curls.  
  
Renaldo staggered, the blood spurting from his own injury finally coming to his attention. He tried to grab the table to catch himself, but missed, and crashed to the floor inches from his son, unconscious.  
  
Josiah lurched to his feet, blocking the pain of his broken arm from his mind. He stumbled over to where Hannah lay, swallowing back sudden nausea at the amount of blood pooling around her head. He lifted her to his shoulder with his good arm and headed towards the nearest neighbor's house for help.  
  
~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*  
  
Within three months, a federal judge had declared that neither child would ever live with their father again. No legal action was taken against Renaldo, though Josiah received some measure of satisfaction that the axe had been rusty and so infection had set in. The doctor brought in to treat the reverend's injuries had had no choice but to amputate.  
  
Josiah's broken arm had healed with no complications, though the broken heart would take a bit longer. Hannah hadn't been so lucky. When she finally woke up, she had not been the same. She no longer knew her brother. Her talk consisted mainly of mindless ramblings that made no sense to anyone but herself. She had occasional brief moments of clarity, but they were few and far between. The small child had been put in a convent where the sisters hoped her muddled mind would eventually recover, though the doctor left little hope of that possibility.  
  
~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*  
  
Ezra Standish read the letter from Judge Travis with some trepidation. He had been waiting for this day for years, but now that it had arrived, he was quite nervous. Another boy was coming to live with him.  
  
~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*  
  
Dear Ezra,  
  
Thank you for your recent letter. Evie was glad to hear from you. She is bedridden now, you know, so letters are currently the only links she has to the world outside our bedroom. Tell Mary and Stephen we are doing well. And thank them for me for the quilt they sent, it does a wonderful job of keeping Evie warm.  
  
However, that is not why I am writing you. I have heard of a boy who needs a home and was wondering if you were still interested. His name is Josiah Sanchez and he is eight years old, just a little older than Nathan. His mother died about three years ago, and he and his twin sister have been living with their father, a clergyman. Unfortunately, it seems that the Reverend Sanchez turned to liquor after his wife's death and has been beating his children ever since.  
  
Josiah has suffered no permanent damage, at least not physically, but his sister Hannah is now residing in a convent that is better suited to care for her needs. She received a bad head injury and as I understand it, she is now rather simple-minded. Naturally, the children will not be sent back to their father.  
  
We have tried several times to have Josiah adopted, but have been as yet unsuccessful. I am hoping that with a more stable and permanent home he'll be better able to recover from his ordeal. Would you be wiling to try and provide that? If so, please respond as quickly as possible. I do not want that boy in an orphanage any longer than absolutely necessary.  
  
Very sincerely yours,  
  
Orrin Travis  
  
~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*  
  
Ezra may have been nervous, but that did not mean he wasn't going to accept. He began the response immediately.  
  
~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*  
  
Josiah was a tall boy. That was the first thing Ezra noticed when he stepped off the stage two weeks later. Judge Travis was right behind him, gently steering the obviously frightened child towards his new guardian. Ezra smiled at him, hoping to release some of the tension he could feel radiating off the boy. Josiah would not meet his eyes, nor would he consent to shake Ezra's hand.  
  
The Judge sent him an apologetic look, but Ezra shrugged it off. He well remembered the fear he'd felt every time he'd gone to a new home, and also the uncertainty that followed the type of abuse Josiah had suffered. They'd get through this; it would just take time.  
  
Upon further examination, Ezra could see that Josiah was a very handsome boy. His black curls were shiny and tousled. Pale blue eyes looked out from underneath a wide forehead and the strong jaw and broad shoulders told of the power to come with adulthood.  
  
But it was the hesitation in those blue eyes that caught Ezra's attention the most of all. He laid a gentle hand on Josiah's shoulder, pretending not to notice the involuntary flinch that resulted. "Hello, Josiah, my name is Ezra. I'm very glad you're coming to live with me. There's another boy already living at my house. His name is Nathan and he's real excited to meet you. He's seven, just a little younger than you and I bet you two will get along quite well."  
  
Josiah listened silently, but didn't reply except to offer a nearly whispered, "Hello."  
  
Ezra sighed. This might be harder than he thought. 'But,' he thought, 'Not to worry, Ezra. He'll come around. You must be patient.'  
  
~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*  
  
Ezra's patience won out after all, but he wasn't the one to bring Josiah around. That particular honor belonged to Nathan and Nathan alone. The young ex-slave was the one to include Josiah in all the nonsense that boys love so much. He was the one who helped the boy find his way around the orchards and stables on the property. He introduced Josiah to Chaucer, Ezra's horse, and to Patty and Jake, the big draft horses used to pull the wagon. He dragged Josiah to town with them and that's where the boy met the Travises and Emma and Buck.  
  
However, it was to Ezra that Josiah went one night six weeks after he'd arrived. The first big storm of the season was coming up and, though he wouldn't admit it, the boy was scared. He appeared in Ezra's doorway late that night. "Mr. Ezra?"  
  
Ezra was only half-awake, but he recognized the urgency in Josiah's tone immediately. "What is it, Josiah?"  
  
"I...Well, it's storming outside and I wanted to make sure you and Nathan were okay."  
  
Ezra nodded solemnly, the slight humor in the situation not even entering his mind. "Did you check on Nathan?"  
  
"Yeah. He's okay." After a moment, Josiah asked softly, "Are you okay?"  
  
"Well, to tell you the truth, it's a little bit scary in here with all that thunder. Do you mind keeping me company for a while?"  
  
Immense relief shown on the young face. "Sure, I don't mind." Josiah clambered into Ezra's bed, at first keeping his distance. However, with each clap of thunder he scooted closer until he was tucked up close to the gambler's side. He looked up, startled, when he realized what he'd done, but Ezra's easy smile reassured him that he'd done nothing wrong. He relaxed then and was soon asleep. Ezra soon followed.  
  
A short time later, vibrations under the arm Ezra had eased around Josiah's shoulder brought him awake once more. He looked down to see those shoulders jerking in silent tears. Gently Ezra jostled the boy to let him know he was awake. "Josiah, son, what's wrong?"  
  
It took a few minutes for him to reply. "I miss my mama."  
  
Ezra gathered him up then and held him close, much the same as he'd done to Nathan several years earlier. "I know you do, Josiah. But you know what? I'll bet your mama is watching from Heaven right now and smiling."  
  
Josiah looked up and sniffled. "You think so?"  
  
"I'd bet on it."  
  
"Mr. Ezra, is your mama in Heaven, too?"  
  
"No, Josiah, my mother is still alive." Ezra hesitated, then revealed something that he'd kept close to his heart for a long time. "But my father went to Heaven when I was even younger than Nathan."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"He...he was shot while he was trying to stop some bad men from hurting my mother and I." Ezra shifted a bit to get more comfortable, and smiled when he felt Josiah shift with him. "I was just six years old. He was a banker, my father. He was so smart. I remember that he always used to take me to work with him and sometimes I got to help count the money and put it in the safe. The night he died, he came home whistling. He had just helped a new young married couple buy their first house and he was just about to bust at the seams. He just loved helping people like that, making others happy." Ezra's voice wavered, but he didn't stop. "I miss him so much sometimes."  
  
He felt Josiah's head nod against his chest. "My mama was so pretty. She had hair like leaves."  
  
"Leaves?" Ezra didn't quite understand.  
  
"Yeah, you know. In the fall when the leaves all change color and it looks almost like the trees are on fire it's so bright? That's what her hair was like. Sometimes when she'd come to tell me and Hannah goodnight she'd bend over my bed and her hair would be all around me and it smelled like the kitchen right after she baked bread."  
  
Ezra hugged Josiah. "You know, Josiah, if you just hold on to that memory, she won't ever really leave. When we remember the people we loved, they live on right in here," he touched Josiah's chest, "and in here." Then he touched the unruly curls. "They won't ever really die if we don't forget."  
  
Josiah didn't reply again, and within a few moments his breathing evened out. Ezra knew he'd fallen asleep. He placed a soft kiss on the dark head. "I'll always be here if you want to share another memory, Josiah."  
  
~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*  
  
Author's Note- Chris' story is mostly done, though I am going to do a little bit more tweaking. It should be posted within the next week or so.  
  
Remember, feedback is much appreciated! 


	5. Chris' Story

~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*  
  
Charlie Parker belongs to me, so please don't use him without permission. It is entirely possible that he will appear in other stories of mine, though obviously in a different universe and role, as you will understand after reading this story. None of the other characters are mine.  
  
Also for those of you who were rather shocked by the actions of Hannah in Josiah's story, let me just say that I saw her as perhaps being slightly unbalanced, even as a child. That is why I had her do what she did to their father. I apologize if anyone was offended by that.  
  
This story contains a character death, but not one of the seven.  
  
~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*  
  
Ezra woke with a start, laying there for a moment gathering his thoughts before automatically reaching for his pocket watch. As he focused on the timepiece, his green eyes widened and a curse escaped his lips. Leaping out of bed, he snatched the first items of clothing he encountered: his black pants, white ruffled shirt, and red coat. He rarely wore his fancy gambler's clothes anymore, but he thought since he was away from home it wouldn't hurt to get in a few games. The colors he wore leveled the playing field somewhat by warning his opponents that he was a professional. However, just at this moment, poker was the last thing on his mind.  
  
He was late. He'd overslept, due to the late night at the tables. It was nearly noon, and the train had been due at nine thirty. Praying fervently that his charges were still at the station, he thundered down the hotel stairs and ran frantically across the street.  
  
He'd come clear up to Nebraska territory to fetch two boys, the newest to reside at Standish House. Judge Travis, preoccupied with the severe illness and imminent death of his wife, had been unable to arrange for the boys' transport closer to Four Corners. They'd been forced to ride an orphan train from Illinois.  
  
Other than their names, Charlie Parker and Chris Larabee, and their ages, 12 and 5 respectively, and the fact that their family had been killed in a fire, Ezra knew next to nothing about either boy. He had agreed simply on the belief that boys that young needed better homes than overcrowded orphanages and filthy railroad cars. He had been somewhat apprehensive about taking the boys in, knowing so little about them, but something in his heart told him he was making the right decision.  
  
~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*  
  
While he had been sleeping peacefully, the train had chugged and hissed its way into the station. The boys, of all shapes and sizes, were being unloaded. Most of them were met by various townspeople and farmers who had come looking for children to adopt. By the time Ezra arrived, not a soul was left on the platform. Ezra frowned, looking around in confusion. This couldn't be right.  
  
He went up to the station-master. "Excuse me. I was supposed to meet the orphan train to collect two boys, but I am afraid I was unavoidably delayed." He consoled himself by telling himself it was only a little white lie. No one ever need know he overslept. "Do you happen to know where I might find them?"  
  
The man just grunted and jerked his chin at the doorway of the station- house.  
  
Upon entering, Ezra caught sight of two forlorn looking waifs: a small but fierce-looking blond boy and a tall redhead, along with a sour-faced nun, apparently in charge of the two. The older boy was so thin Ezra wondered that he didn't blow away in the relentless prairie winds.  
  
Ezra sighed and walked over. "Pardon me, my name is Ezra Standish. I am here representing Standish House."  
  
The nun looked down her nose at him. "You're late."  
  
"Yes, I am terribly sorry. Things...came up. Are these the two boys?"  
  
She gave him a look that clearly spoke of her opinion of his intelligence. "Of course."  
  
"Ah, of course." Ezra found himself shuddering under the severe gaze. "Shall we get the paperwork in order?"  
  
She made no response other than to thrust two forms at him. "Sign at the bottom." He did so. "Congratulations, they're all yours." She gave him what could have been a smile. "Good luck." Then she swept away, reminding Ezra vaguely of a steamship leaving harbor.  
  
He eyed the two boys. "One of you must be Chris Larabee."  
  
The smaller of the two spoke up. "Yeah. That's me."  
  
Ezra turned to the other boy. "That must make you Charlie Parker."  
  
The redhead just nodded.  
  
"Ah, wonderful. I'm Ezra Standish; I'm here to take you to your new home."  
  
Charlie didn't speak, but Chris had quite an opinion on that remark. "I ain't going to no damn farm. Ain't a pack mule nor a hired hand neither. An' I don't need no damn family, neither. I c'n take care o'myself."  
  
Ezra was stunned. "First of all, young man, I do not tolerate that kind of language and I'll thank you not to use it again. Secondly, I don't live on a farm, so there is little worry about that, although my land does consist of a stable with some horses. And I really don't think you can consider us a family, not in the truest sense of the word."  
  
"Good." The boy walked over and struggled to pick up a carpet bag that was nearly as big as he was.  
  
"Would you like some assistance?"  
  
"No." The response was instantaneous and rather curt. "I c'n do it myself." Chris wobbled his way back to the other boy. "C'mon, Charlie."  
  
For the first time, Ezra assessed the older boy. He looked to be around twelve or thirteen, older by far than any of the others at Standish House. In addition to being rail-thin, he was ghostly pale and had dark circles under his eyes. Ezra approached him. "Are you ill, son?"  
  
A small cough escaped before he answered in raspy voice. "Naw, it ain't nothing." However, the meaningful look he gave Chris told Ezra that he would surrender no further information in the little boy's presence. Even so, while Ezra watched, he swayed and a light sweat broke out on his freckled face.  
  
The former gambler steadied him with a hand. "When was the last time you boys ate?"  
  
Charlie thought a moment. "Yesterday morning, I think. Got to stop and have some bread and milk in Wichita."  
  
Ezra felt his heart twinge. /Poor kids./ "Well, we must remedy that situation immediately. What do you two say we head to the restaurant and get something to eat before retiring to the hotel?"  
  
Chris looked to Charlie for guidance, and the older boy finally nodded. He wasn't sure he trusted this man, but he was awfully hungry and getting rather tired besides. A good hot meal wasn't at all unappealing. He could figure things out better on a full stomach anyway.  
  
~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*  
  
During the meal, Ezra watched Chris and Charlie carefully. Both were too thin for his tastes, but Charlie was painfully so. He walked slowly to the restaurant, as if it pained him to move. He ordered a good-size meal, but once it arrived he scarcely ate a few bites, instead shoving the food around his plate aimlessly, cerulean eyes dull and listless. Chris, on the other hand, ate nearly his entire plate of chicken and dumplings. While Ezra watched Charlie pick at his food, Chris' little blond head drifted closer and closer to the table until it landed there with a muffled thunk.  
  
Ezra chuckled; he couldn't help it. "Well, somebody is definitely ready for a nap. Are you about finished?" Charlie nodded slightly, and Ezra thought to himself that Chris wasn't the only one exhausted. "Well, then, let us retire to our room."  
  
Charlie followed Ezra, who carried Chris, and by the time they returned to the hotel he was nearly out of breath. "Son, are you sure you're alright?"  
  
Charlie pointed to the bed, where Ezra laid the sleeping boy. Then the two went into the hallway, leaving the door ajar. Charlie met Ezra's eyes squarely, and his eyes weren't those of a twelve year old. Ezra gasped. "How old are you, really, Charlie?"  
  
"Seventeen." The youth smiled his first real smile. "I told...the orphanage people...I was twelve so...they'd let me...come with Chris." Charlie's speech was frequently interspersed with shallow, labored breaths.  
  
Ezra nodded but didn't share his smile. Something didn't quite add up. "Why are you here?"  
  
"I promised...Chris' folks...I'd look after him. I keep my promises."  
  
"I've no doubt that you do." Ezra leaned casually against the wall. "Are you two brothers?"  
  
Charlie wheezed a laugh, which turned into a brief coughing fit. When he'd recovered, he replied. "No. We're...cousins. His...ma and...my ma...were sisters. My folks...got sick and...died...and I went...to live...with the Larabees...three years...ago. Chris and...I...were camping when...the fire happened."  
  
Ezra eyed the boy carefully, putting all of his symptoms together for the first time. "It was consumption, wasn't it, that killed your parents?"  
  
Charlie half-smiled. "Yes. Their...last gift was...to pass it on." He raised his eyes to Ezra's again. Then his eyes returned to the bedroom and the child sleeping within. "Chris...doesn't know."  
  
Ezra ran a hand over his face. "Good Lord."  
  
"You have...no idea." Charlie gripped one of Ezra's arms with surprising strength. "I think you're...a good man. Take care...of him for me. Please."  
  
"I give you my word as a Standish, he'll be well-cared for. But," Ezra shook his head briefly as if to dispel an unpleasant thought. "You'll be able to do that yourself, once we get back. It's only a five-day train ride."  
  
This time Charlie's smile was distant and mysterious. "We'll see."  
  
~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*  
  
Due to a small herd of buffalo who seemed disinclined to abandon their position on the railroad tracks, the trip was lengthened by almost two days. By the fifth day, Charlie was too weak to get up from the bed in the car Ezra had rented with the money he'd won at poker. Chris was still relatively oblivious, having been assured by Charlie himself that he was only tired and would soon recover. Ezra was of the opinion that the younger boy should be told, but Charlie was adamant...when he was awake, that is.  
  
On the morning of the sixth day, Ezra woke up before both boys. After having completed his morning ablutions, he went to check on them. Both seemed to be sleeping soundly. Chris was sprawled all over the bed, arms and legs everywhere and snoring gently. Ezra smiled and replaced the covers that had been kicked off.  
  
Charlie was in much the same position he'd been in the night before except one arm had slipped down and was hanging over the side of the bed. Ezra went to lift it back to his chest and stiffened.  
  
Charlie's hand was ice-cold.  
  
Slowly and with great reluctance, Ezra lowered two fingers to Charlie's neck.  
  
Nothing. The boy had passed on in his sleep.  
  
Ezra rubbed at his eyes to dispel the sudden burning sensation. Having only known Charlie for a few days, he couldn't actually mourn, but the death of a child was never easy to face.  
  
~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*  
  
A week later, after having arrived back at Standish House, Ezra leaned, defeated, against the doorframe outside the room of his newest charge. Chris Larabee was five years old, going on forty. He had been coping admirably with the death of his parents, but losing Charlie had been the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak.  
  
He knew his parents had died, had found them in fact. He and Charlie had been exploring the woods near his home at the time of the fire and had come back when they'd seen the smoke. It had been too late. Sarah and Adam Larabee were overcome by the smoke and flames. Not much had been left of the house or the people within. Ezra felt that it had helped that he'd been able to have some closure in the form of seeing their lifeless bodies, as traumatizing as that had been. He couldn't deny that they were gone.  
  
Charlie's death, however, was a different matter. Chris had not been allowed to see the body and so it didn't yet seem real to him. He still clung to the belief that his cousin would return to him. After all, as he said, Charlie had promised to take care of him and he'd never break a promise. The results of this confusion were heartbreaking to watch.  
  
Chris was angry.  
  
No, Ezra thought, that wasn't quite true. He wasn't angry. He was absolutely furious. He lashed out at anyone and everyone who tried to reach him. He wouldn't talk to Ezra, or Josiah, or Nathan, or even Mrs. Wells. The room he'd been given was now in shambles because he's smashed everything breakable his short arms could reach. He screamed and yelled and cursed, using words no five year old should know.  
  
Finally he'd locked himself in his room and wouldn't come out, no matter how hard Ezra cajoled and pleaded. Each time Ezra knocked on the door something was thrown at it, until finally the gambler had given up.  
  
He spoke just loud enough for his voice to be heard through the battered wooden door. "Chris, I'm going down to the kitchen now. If you need anything you know where to find me."  
  
~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*7~*  
  
He descended the stairs with a heavy heart. Josiah had been a struggle, there was no denying that, but Ezra had never doubted his ability to get through. It had paid off eventually. Chris, however, was a different matter. Ezra wasn't sure there was anything he could do for this boy. Only Chris could decide to stop being angry and reenter the world.  
  
A sudden crash followed by what sounded like shattering glass came from above met his ears and made him turn around and head back up the stairs before ever reaching the lower level. When he arrived, there were Josiah and Nathan standing hesitantly in the hallway. Both pointed wordlessly towards Chris' door, which was Ezra's immediate destination. The silence from the other side made him frown, and he unlocked the door with the skeleton key he always kept handy. "Chris?"  
  
The scene that met his eyes shocked him. He'd known Chris was angry, and tended towards violence, but he hadn't expected anything like this. It would seem that the five year old had broken the only chair in the room and smashed the window with one broken leg.  
  
"Good Lord!" Ezra rushed into the room, only stopping short when Chris brandished the improvised weapon at him.  
  
"You stay away! I hate you, you won't let Charlie come back. But he'll be back and he'll take me away, just you wait! He promised he'd stay with me!"  
  
Ezra might have given in had it not been for the bloody footprints he could see Chris leaving behind as he paced around in agitation. The glass littered the floor and it cut his bare feet each time he moved. "Chris? Chris, son, please stay still. That glass is hurting you."  
  
"I don't care! It don't hurt. I don't hurt." Despite his brave words, Ezra could see tears building in Chris' eyes. "I'm a man, not some dumb little kid, and no stupid glass is going to hurt me."  
  
'No,' thought Ezra, 'the glass isn't what's making you hurt, but you won't admit it.'  
  
Ezra lunged forward suddenly and yanked the wooden club from Chris' hand. In the same smooth motion, he wrapped his free hand around the boy's body. The chair leg was thrown on the floor and his other arm joined the first. Chris screeched and began to struggle, pounding Ezra's body with his fists. "NO! Let me GO! You bastard! You son of a bitch! I HATE you! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!" Chris kept hitting and screaming until he was exhausted and then he collapsed, weeping, into Ezra's chest. "I hate you."  
  
"I know, Chris. You go on and hate me if it makes you feel better."  
  
Ezra felt the shift in the boy's posture almost instantly. It was his only warning when Chris threw his arms around Ezra's neck and his legs around the man's waist. The child clung to him like a little leech for several minutes, not acknowledging when Ezra motioned the others out of the room and eased Chris into a more comfortable position to take a seat on the bed. "You're a heavy boy, you know that?"  
  
"Yeah. Mama said I was growing like a weed."  
  
"I'm sure you are." Ezra tread carefully; the last thing he wanted to do was make the boy clam up about his parents again. With any luck, talking about them would speed up the healing process.  
  
"Pa said I was going to be tall like him." Chris sniffed. "I hope so. He was real tall."  
  
"I see. What else do you remember?"  
  
Chris spent the next hour or so reviewing some of his happier memories with his parents and Charlie. Ezra said very little, mostly just listening and offering what comfort he could. After Chris seemed to be slowing down, he rose again. "Are you getting tired?"  
  
"A little."  
  
"Well, it is late. We had better start getting you ready for bed."  
  
"Kay." Chris was compliant while Ezra helped him wash and change, and afterwards, while the man was tucking him in, he touched his new guardian's arm. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ezra, I don't really hate you."  
  
Ezra smiled. "I know." He brushed a wayward lock of hair from Chris' forehead. "Sleep well."  
  
"Can...can you stay? Just til I fall asleep?"  
  
"Of course." Ezra pulled a chair up beside the bed. "I'll be glad to."  
  
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	6. Buck's Story

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Emma Lou Wilmington and Miss Angel belong to me. None of the other characters are mine.  
  
Warning: This chapter contains a character death, of a slightly graphic nature. It isn't any worse than would be shown on TV, really, but still...you've been warned.  
  
Feedback is always appreciated; thanks to Beth, Lu, Lacey, Katy, and Theresa who responded so positively to Chris' story.  
  
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Emma Lou Wilmington sighed in fond exasperation at her small son. He was getting so big, just like his daddy. Ben Wilmington had been a strong, well- muscled man with the same dark hair and twinkling blue eyes he'd bestowed on his son. He'd been a lumberjack, traveling through the small Kansas town where fifteen-year-old Emma lived with her parents and eight brothers and sisters.  
  
It had been love at first sight.  
  
He'd married her six weeks after they met, with the blessing of both her parents. The newlyweds had traveled out west to seek out new opportunities. They had had some rough times, but had eventually settled in a small town in the New Mexico territory about five months after their wedding. Emma had set up house quickly, wanting everything to be perfect for the baby she was now expecting. With great reluctance, Ben left a week or two later, knowing that he needed to find work to support his growing family, but still loathing to leave his young wife and baby-to-be.  
  
He never came home.  
  
Emma had waited faithfully for months, but no word ever came with any indication as to what had happened to her husband. He was dead, that she knew, for nothing less than death would ever keep her Ben away from her. Little Buck became her pride and joy. She had to resort to prostitution, having no other way to earn money, but she retained her pride and she taught her son the same. She would never let the circumstances of her life determine the person he'd become.  
  
The arrival of a dapper young gambler with a small colored boy in his care changed her outlook. The first time he told her he loved her both made her heart sing and broke it at the same time. She loved Ezra, and she always would, but a small part of her heart did and always would hold the hope that her Ben would come home someday. She simply couldn't bring herself to marry again. She hadn't told Ezra that, though; he didn't even know about Ben. She had simply told him that she didn't want him burdened with the social stigma of a former prostitute as a wife. Emma smiled slightly, remembering that Ezra had never stopped asking. His latest proposal had been scarcely a week earlier.  
  
Now her little boy, Ben's boy, stood before her, holding a huge, dripping wet, and rather disgruntled bullfrog in his chubby hands. "Look, Ma, ain't he swell? Can I keep 'im? I'll call him Froggy!"  
  
She kissed his head. "No, Buck honey, you should take him back where you found him. He doesn't belong with people; he belongs with the other frogs. He's probably missing his family right about now. "  
  
Buck frowned. "You think so?"  
  
"Mm-hmm."  
  
The six-year-old heaved a huge sigh. "Okay then, Ma, I'll put him back."  
  
She watched Buck trot off with a tear in her eye. He was so much like Ben it sometimes made her heart ache to think that her Buck was never going to know what a wonderful man his father had been. She only hoped she could raise him as well as Ben would have.  
  
Buck, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of every single worry his beloved mother had. To him, the world consisted of the beautiful and loving women that shared his house, and of Mr. Ezra, who was, Buck was certain, absolutely the best man in the whole world. He wasn't at all like the men who came to visit his ma and the other ladies. Those men were mean and never paid him any attention and sometimes they even went so far as to hit his mother and 'aunts.' That made Buck mad, but Ma had said he must never fight and so he worked off most of his anger the way most boys did: he played it away. He climbed and swam and ran and jumped and just generally got dirty. Emma fussed sometimes, but secretly she was pleased that her boy really was no different than any other, no matter what the other mothers in town said.  
  
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After Froggy had been safely returned to his family, Buck set off in search of further mischief. He soon found it in the form of a large apple tree that was just begging to be climbed. He couldn't resist the siren's call and soon was well over twenty feet above the ground. 'Wow,' the boy thought, 'You can see everything from up here. Look, there's the church, and Mrs. Potter's store, and the livery, and there's my house!"  
  
Buck waved at his mother, who was standing out in front of the brothel, but she couldn't see him. He frowned slightly, and began to descend when he saw a large scruffy man take hold of her arm and roughly shove her into the house. When Buck made it to the bottom of the tree, he started to run back home as quickly as his short legs would allow.  
  
He arrived to see the other ladies gathered nervously in the kitchen. "What's happenin'? Where's Ma?"  
  
Miss Angel, who ran the cathouse, took Buck's hand. "She's with a man right now, mijo. You must wait here with us."  
  
At just that moment, a pained scream echoed in the wooden walls and Buck knew the voice for his mother's. "He's hurtin' her!"  
  
He struggled to break Angel's hold, but was not strong enough. "Let me go!"  
  
"No, Buck, no. You might be hurt as well. She will be alright."  
  
Buck pretended to give up just long enough for the woman to relax her hold, then he pulled away with a fierce jerk and ran towards his mother's room. What he saw there made him wish that he'd stayed with Angel.  
  
Emma lay on the floor, dress ripped and shredded in some places. Her breasts were exposed and covered with bite marks and vicious looking bruises that extended down her torso to her waist. Blood oozed from her torn and swollen lips, and both of her eyes were puffy and black. She wasn't moving.  
  
The same scruffy man from the boardwalk was standing over her, pants unfastened and a hungry leer on his unwashed face. He was oblivious to the entrance of the small boy, that is, until Buck grabbed a candlestick from the night table and started hitting him with it. "You leave my mama alone!" He swung blindly, heedless of the many times the candlestick connected with flesh.  
  
The cowhand didn't have a chance. When he turned, Buck's improvised weapon hit him directly between the legs, effectively ruining any plans he'd had for fun with Emma or any thoughts he'd had of retaliating against Buck. He dropped like a newborn calf, moaning in a strangely high-pitched voice.  
  
Buck ignored him altogether, instead dropping to the floor beside a weakly stirring Emma. "Ma?"  
  
"Buck..." her voice trailed off into a painful sounding cough. When it subsided, blood spotted the floor under her head. She wasn't so far gone as to not realize that meant she was bleeding inside. "Buck," she tried again. "Go to...Ezra. Be...safe." She touched his cheek with a trembling hand. "I...love you. Don't ever for...get...that." The hand dropped limply to the floor and her final breath left her with a whoosh.  
  
Buck clutched the unresponsive hand tightly to his chest. "Ma? Please wake up, Ma. That man's still here. You gotta get up so's we can leave. He can't hurt us no more if we leave. Please, Ma, please wake up."  
  
That was how Angel and the others found him a short time later, once they'd worked up the courage to investigate the eerie silence coming from the bedroom. The pretty Mexican girl felt her eyes fill with tears. "Oh, Emma."  
  
She tried to cajole Buck away, to separate him from the rapidly cooling body of his mother, but he resisted. "Buck, mijo, your Mama is gone. We must leave her now."  
  
He said not a word, didn't even shake his head, simply ignored her. It was as if her words went unheard. "Buck?" She tried again, this time reaching out to touch his shoulder.  
  
The effect was electric. Buck sprang away from her touch, slapping reflexively at the hand. Angel was shocked; Buck had never struck her before. "Mijo?"  
  
He glanced up at her, and she was struck by the confused agony in his usually happy blue eyes. He made no indication that he recognized her, instead looking through her as if she were a ghost. After a moment, his body followed his gaze, bolting out the door and racing out of the house as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. No one made a move to stop him, mistakenly believing that he'd come home when he'd calmed down a bit.  
  
It would be three days before anyone saw Buck again.  
  
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Sheriff Travis looked sadly at the door of the building now known as Standish House. The old man had retired from his judgeship after Evie's death, and had come to this town to be nearer to Mary and Billy. He had accepted the job of sheriff after the boredom of retirement finally threatened to drive him insane. He was now doing what was quite possibly the hardest thing he'd ever done besides bury his wife and son.  
  
Ezra knew what was coming before Sheriff Travis had a chance to speak. He'd felt Emma Wilmington's death the moment it had happened. It had been like someone had sucked all the air out of his lungs. His fears were confirmed when he saw the look on Travis' face. "She's gone." His calm voice was in direct opposition to the pain now ripping apart his heart.  
  
The sheriff removed his hat in respect for the dead and nodded. "I'm so sorry, Ezra."  
  
Ezra nodded and made a half-hearted attempt to ask the older man inside. Sheriff Travis refused, sensing that Ezra was close to breaking down and knowing that he would want to be alone when that happened. "I just didn't want you to hear it later in town."  
  
"Thank you. Good day, Sheriff."  
  
"Goodbye, Ezra."  
  
Ezra shut the door like a man in a dream. He was unaware of his walk up the stairs, and later he wouldn't remember locking himself in his room. All he would remember was the all-consuming emptiness eating his soul. The love of his life was gone. It didn't really matter how or why, just that it had happened and that he'd never be the same again. He sat down on his bed and his eye happened to fall on the small box sitting on his side table. The box contained the ring he'd tried to give Emma repeatedly, the ring he'd have continued to offer her until she accepted. That was too much.  
  
The tears came slowly, but increased in volume and intensity until they could clearly be heard even down the hallway. He howled at the top of his lungs, no longer caring about what others thought or even if he was scaring the boys. Nothing else so much as crossed his mind, not even one small, lost six-year-old with dark wavy hair and his father's blue eyes.  
  
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Two days later, Emma Lou Wilmington was placed underneath a weeping willow, in the exact spot where she and Ezra had picnicked and talked the day away countless times. It was the place he'd first proposed to her, and the first place they'd made love. Ezra had known, beyond any doubt, that this was where she would have wanted her final resting place to be.  
  
Buck wasn't there for the funeral. After the initial burst of grief, Ezra had gone to the brothel to get him, only to find he wasn't there. Angel had told him she thought that he'd be back after he'd had some time to mourn, but Ezra wasn't so sure. He knew just how close Buck and his mother had been. He was well aware of the intense pain the small boy must be feeling.  
  
He looked everywhere he could think of Buck might have gone, but to no avail. Josiah and Nathan had joined the search as well, but no one had found even a sign of the orphaned boy.  
  
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After the funeral, Ezra tried to return to his regular routine, but found that he didn't have the heart to do any more than go through the motions. He even failed to notice the odd way Chris had begun sneaking food off the supper table and retreating to the barn every evening.  
  
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Nettie was the one to bring it to his attention the day after Emma's funeral. "Ezra, have you noticed anything...odd...about Chris lately?"  
  
"Odd? In what way?"  
  
"Well, it's just that last night and tonight he ate a great deal more than usual."  
  
"Well, Nettie, he is a growing boy."  
  
"Yes, but it's more than that. Ezra, he ate at least two whole carrots at both meals."  
  
This got Ezra's attention. "Carrots? Chris?" Chris hated carrots with a passion.  
  
"Yes. I wanted to know if you knew of a reason he might suddenly be craving them."  
  
Slowly Ezra shook his head. "No, as far as I know he still dislikes them. However," an idea began forming in his head. "I know of someone who likes carrots very much." He smiled knowingly at Nettie. "I'll talk to Chris. I believe I know what is behind his sudden change of heart."  
  
He found Chris in the same place the young blond could often be found when he wanted to be alone: the small pond on the edge of the Standish House property. The child was sitting by the water's edge, legs drawn up with his chin resting on his knees. Ezra sat by him, adopting a similar position.  
  
They sat in silence for several minutes before Ezra spoke gently "Mrs. Wells tells me you've developed a sudden interest in carrots."  
  
The six-year-old flashed him a slightly guilty glance. "Well, they wasn't actually for me."  
  
"I thought as much." Ezra laid a hand on the boy's back. "Where is he, Chris?" Chris hesitated, and Ezra smiled. He was nothing if not loyal. "It's alright, Chris, I won't be angry with Buck. But I need to know where he is. I'm worried about him."  
  
This seemed to reassure Chris. "He's in the hayloft." The boy's voice became nearly inaudible. "He misses his mama."  
  
Ezra drew Chris closer. "I know." He rubbed the blond locks. "I think maybe he's not the only one."  
  
Chris blinked away sudden tears. "I'm fine."  
  
Ezra knew that for the lie it was, but he'd let it go for now. Chris was not unlike him in that way. He was always rather reluctant to reveal his pain, no matter how fresh and raw it was. He hugged Chris once more before regaining his feet. "I better go check on him. Are you coming back to the house?"  
  
"In a minute."  
  
The man nodded his acceptance of Chris' need for solitude and headed off to the barn to comfort the other grieving boy.  
  
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Talking Buck out of the hayloft was a harder task than Ezra had anticipated. While part of the boy knew his mother wasn't coming back, he wouldn't let himself accept it. He had convinced himself that he had to stay hidden until the bad man was gone and she would come to collect him. He informed Ezra of this rather heatedly when the man stood underneath him pleading for him to come down.  
  
"Buck, please come down. You must be hungry; at least come and eat something."  
  
"Nuh-uh. No way, not til Ma comes to get me."  
  
"Buck, your mama's not going to come. She's gone to Heaven like Chris and Josiah and Nathan's mamas." Ezra's voice faltered but he managed to keep his composure.  
  
The stubborn six-year-old shook his head, oblivious to the fact that Ezra couldn't see him. "I ain't coming down and you can't make me."  
  
Ezra sighed. "Alright, then. I'll just leave the lantern here in case you change your mind." As he headed out the barn door, he threw one final incentive up to Buck. "We all really miss you, you know. We'd really like you to come down so we could see you again."  
  
There was no response so Ezra continued on his way. He knew that Buck had to come down eventually, but he still couldn't stop the feeling that he'd failed both Emma and her son somehow.  
  
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Meals were delivered to Buck in the barn for the next several days, but he ate sparingly. Ezra was at least gratified to see that he drank every bit of the water and milk provided to him. He knew Buck came down occasionally, for the trail of hay from the barn to the outhouse was not exactly sneaky. He simply had yet to catch the boy at it.  
  
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A week and a half after Emma's funeral, Ezra made a visit to her grave as he had begun doing every day. He was surprised to see the small forlorn figure already sitting there. He debated with himself whether or not to interrupt, but his soft heart made the decision for him. He approached warily, unsure how his presence would be received.  
  
He needn't have worried. Before he could even take a seat, Buck glanced up and saw him standing there. He turned his eyes back to the stone without saying anything.  
  
Much as he'd done the week before for Chris, Ezra sat down, unconsciously mimicking the pose Buck was in. This time he said nothing, and they simply sat together for a long hour before the small boy leaned against his shoulder. In turn, Ezra wrapped an arm around Buck and offered his silent support. Buck sniffed. "She said she'd always be here."  
  
"She will, Buck." Ezra tapped his chest with one finger. "Right here."  
  
Not until the sun went down and Ezra realized that Buck had fallen asleep did either move. Ezra lifted the limp body, careful not to wake him, and carried him to the bedroom that had been designated for him ever since Emma had been killed. The conversation he knew was coming would wait for sunrise.  
  
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	7. Vin's Story

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Once again, sorry for the loooong gap between stories. Real Life sucks. I have no idea how long it will be until JD's story presents itself, because although I've outlined it I haven't started writing it yet. However, after that is over, the first story with an actual plot is already halfway done. So...take heart.

I deviate a little from the brief history I gave Vin in the introductory story in this AU. Rather than living with the Kiowa, instead in this version he was raised by Comanche. Apparently my muse liked this version better.

Translations for Comanche phrases can be found at the end of the story.

None of the M7 characters belong to me. Ellison, McAllister, and Sands are mine, please do not use without permission.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed the past chapters; your feedback motivates me to keep writing.

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Running.

He was running.

He wasn't sure why, or where, exactly. In fact, he was almost positive he'd been in his bed a few moments ago. A vague, sleep-fogged memory flitted across his mind, one of a tense voice and hurried hands pushing him from the warmth of his home. He slowed to a stop, trying to collect himself enough to figure out why he was here, outside, without his moccasins, when two big, rough hands grabbed his waist and lifted him high in the air.

He shrieked in fear, unable to help himself. Later, he would be angry with himself. Two Feathers wouldn't have made a sound, of that he was sure, but after all, Two Feathers had seven winters where he only had four. Three whole years was a long time, so one childish scream could be forgiven...right?

He hoped so.

The man who grabbed him was speaking now, but the child couldn't understand a word. He craned his neck, looking behind the man for the village but seeing only other men on horses and dust. The sky seemed filled with it.

Suddenly the boy realized: that wasn't dust at all, but smoke. The sky was filling with smoke. His struggles became more frantic; even at age four he knew that much smoke was a bad thing. Loud, animalistic wails of protest burst from his mouth. "Kee! Kee, haamee!"

The soldier, for that's what the man was, on the horse behind the boy grimaced. "Shut up, kid!"

When the yells didn't cease, another horse reined up alongside his. "Ellison, for Pete's sake, gag that little hellion."

"But-"

"That is an order, Corporal."

"Yes, sir." Ellison reached awkwardly into his pocket for a handkerchief when a third voice rang out.

"Belay that order. Sergeant MacAllister, need I remind you that I am in charge of this unit? We do not gag innocent people, especially children."

"Yes, Captain."

The third man, who even the boy recognized as being in charge, rode over to the blushing Corporal. "Giving you some trouble, is he, son?"

"Well, sir, I believe he is just scared."

"Probably. I know I would be. I hated to just grab him like that but we couldn't let those heathens get their hands on him again, could we?"

"No, sir."

"I mean, God only knows the things they would do to him."

"Yes, sir."

"He was probably a slave, beaten at every opportunity."

"Yes, sir." Ellison nodded agreement with his Captain but frowned inwardly. The boy didn't seem to be behaving like a child who had been beaten by the Indians. Rather, he seemed very much to want to go back to the village they had just set fire to. And his body was certainly free of any signs of abuse.

Gunshots sounded in the distance. Immediately the captain's head snapped up and he began barking orders. "About face, men, we're going back." He had not ordered the men to use their weapons in subduing the hostiles and so something must have been wrong. Captain Jim Sand had never once left a man behind and didn't intend to start now.

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The small group of soldiers, accompanied by one frightened little boy, rode back into the camp to see bodies littering the ground. Men and women, children and old people, no one had been spared. Some of the bodies bore bullet wounds, some were burnt, some had clearly been beaten to death.

None of them were alive.

The only living people left in the camp were the soldiers, their blue uniforms stained with blood and soot. A few of the tent-like dwellings were still smoldering with small flames.

Captain Sands rode up to the nearest officer. "What happened here?"

"The savages attacked us, sir. Without provocation. We were attempting to peaceably relocate them, as ordered, when these men came from nowhere." He indicated several dead braves lying together about fifteen feet away. "We had no choice but to open fire."

"I see. And the women and children?"

"They fought when they saw that their men were dead. It was self-defense, Captain, I swear."

"Mm-hmm." Sands walked slowly around the camp, trailed by the young Sergeant. "And yet none of our men seem to be injured."

"Well..." the youth scuffed at the dirt with his foot. "We were lucky, sir. It could have been much worse."

"Of course." The Captain dropped his head, appearing deep in thought for several moments. After a while, he looked up again. "Give me your sidearm, Sergeant."

"I'm sorry?"

"Your gun, boy, give it here." The sergeant obeyed. "Now you pick a few other men and start giving these people a decent burial. There was no honor in what happened here today."

"Yes, sir." The sergeant saluted and began to move off.

Captain Sands' voice stopped him. "And, Sergeant Thompson?"

"Yes, sir?"

"When we return to the fort, I'm going to see to it personally that you receive a court martial. A man who will allow defenseless men, women, and children killed has no right to wear that uniform."

The young man's face fell, but he knew there was nothing he could do. He just nodded and went to follow his Captain's orders.

Sands approached the Corporal who had been in charge of the boy they'd caught. "Where is your passenger, Ellison?"

A sad expression on his face, the soldier pointed. There, clinging to the body of a badly burned woman, was the child. His hair obscured his face but it was obvious he was crying. "I believe she was his mother, sir. At least, she was the woman who raised him."

Sands knew what he meant; the dead woman couldn't possibly be the boy's true mother. She was an Indian; he was a white child. Still, the scene was heartbreaking. Even Sands had to wipe a tear away. "Go collect him, son, he shouldn't be here. As soon as we've cleaned up we're leaving."

"What will happen to him, sir?"

"I suppose he'll be sent to an orphanage, if they can't find his real family."

"Aw, Captain, not an orphan home. I've been in one of those, they're awful. Never get enough to eat and you're always cold and dirty. 'S why I joined the army, to get away. I hate to see the poor kid hafta go to one of them places."  
  
"So do I, Corporal, but we really don't have much of a choice. We can't exactly keep him with us."  
  
"No, sir, of course not. Still..."  
  
"I know."

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Despite his correct statement that they couldn't keep the boy, Sands found himself growing attached. Except for the brief display of emotion at his mother's body, the child had been largely stoic. He was a tough kid, and Sands hated to see him wind up somewhere worse than he'd already been. He only wished he could speak to the boy, but unfortunately he didn't seem to speak any English. In fact, he hadn't made so much as a single sound since they'd picked him up.  
  
Even now he was sitting quietly outside Ellison's tent, munching on some jerky and sipping from a canteen. Sands walked over and sat down beside him. "That beef jerky good?"  
  
Confused blue eyes looked up at him. "Ke nu u nakisupana?itu."  
  
"I'm real sorry about your family. That wasn't supposed to happen."  
  
This time the boy held his tongue, knowing that the man didn't understand him. Jim tried another tactic. He pointed to himself. "Jim." Then he pointed to the boy.  
  
This time a light of understanding lit the blue eyes. He touched Sands' arm. "Jim." Then he slapped himself on the chest. "Nu nahnia tsa Vinninnewah."  
  
The officer smiled. "Good. I'm very glad to meet you, Vinni-nne-wah." He laughed out loud. "Whoo, son, that's a mouthful. How's about I just call you Vin?"

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Vin stayed with the unit for nearly two weeks, until they arrived in Eagle Bend to pick up a prisoner. While they were there, Sands inquired about a possible placement for the boy. The Sheriff, one Sam Stains, immediately recommended a man in Four Corners, a short 3-hour ride away. "He's got this kind of boys' home, s'posed to be real good. Ain't never heard any complaints about him. Name's Standish."  
  
Sands sent a wire to Four Corners, and a reply came back within half an hour. "Will meet at the Sheriff's office tomorrow. Bring the boy. EPS."  
  
So it was that the next day Sands, Ellison, and Vin rode to Four Corners. Vin. having been found wearing nothing but a breechcloth, was now clad in an altered uniform. Even with the adjustments, he was swallowed by the too-large garment. It made for quite an adorable picture.  
  
Sands was surprised to discover that this Standish was a younger man than himself. He had expected someone older. "Mr. Standish?"

"Ah, Captain Sands is it? I must admit I was surprised to receive your telegram. It isn't often the army bothers itself with such matters."

To Ezra's amusement, the captain blushed. "Yes, well, I must confess I have gotten rather attached to the boy. I would hate to see him neglected or abused. I was told that your boys' home was clean and your boys are well-cared for."

"Absolutely." Ezra extended a hand to the door. "If you would like, you may accompany Vin and I to see for yourself."

The captain looked long and hard into Ezra's patient green eyes. "No...no, I don't think that will be necessary. I believe, Mr. Standish, that Vin just might have found himself a home."

Dimples appeared. "I am very glad to hear you say that, Captain. I agree."

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Vin waved forlornly as the first friend he'd made rode off with the rest of his unit. He took a seat under a tree in the front yard and stayed there until dark, when Ezra came looking for him. He took a seat by the boy, thinking wryly to himself that he did this far too often. "Son, I know you most likely can't understand what I'm saying, so this is probably pointless. But supper is ready, and Mrs. Wells worked on it diligently all afternoon. I firmly believe it would be a show of inexcusable rudeness if we weren't to attend. There is a chair at the dining room table just for you and I'd be most pleased if you'd join me." He rose and held out a hand in invitation, which Vin simply stared at. Confusion was still evident in his big blue eyes.

Ezra thought a moment, then mimicked dipping a spoon to his mouth repeatedly. "Eat. You want to eat?"

Vin brightened and nodded his head, accepting the offered hand.

The meal proved...interesting. Vin was completely unfamiliar with all utensils and could not understand why he was the only one eating his mashed potatoes with his fingers. The resulting choking sounds coming from Ezra gave him great concern, and he proceeded to thoroughly pound the Southerner on the back helpfully...little hands covered in potato and gravy.

The other boys found this greatly amusing and laughed until tears came to their eyes. None of them were prepared for the stream of furious Comanche sent their way, or for the tiny boy to leap at Chris silently and without warning. Ezra grabbed him in midair. "No, Vin, we don't attack people at the dinner table."

Had the words Vin uttered next been in English, Ezra had no doubt he would have needed to wash the boy's mouth out with soap. He decided this was as good a time as any to start teaching the boy to speak the language of his true people. "Vin. Sit." He placed the boy forcibly on the chair. "Sit." Ezra demonstrated as well. "Sit."

He could see the rapidly calming child assimilating the information he was being given. Four other pairs of eyes were also glued to the unfolding drama. Josiah and Nathan caught on quickly. Both rose, then sat once again.

"Sit."

"Sit."

Vin seemed to understand. He half-rose, then plopped back down. "Shit."

Ezra was seized by a sudden coughing fit, just as Buck turned to him with saucer-like eyes. "Awwwwww...."

"Hush, Buck."

"But, Mr. Ezra, he said-"

"I know what he said, Buck, it's all right. He doesn't know it's a bad word."

"But..."

"Enough." Ezra smiled slightly at Vin and nodded encouragingly. "That was close. Try again: Sssssit." He emphasized the 's' sound.

"Ssssit. Sit."

"Wonderful!" Ezra clapped his hands. "Well done, Vin."

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Vin was adjusting very well. He made friends easily with the other boys, joining in their mischief as if he'd been there for years rather than a few short weeks. In fact, the only real difficulty he had with adjusting was the use of a bed. His first night he'd pulled a quilt onto the floor of his bedroom and had slept on the makeshift palette ever since. No amount of cajoling from Ezra could change his mind.

It didn't hurt that it took Vin less than two months to pick up most of the basics of English. He still lapsed into Comanche when angry or sleepy, but for the most part understood that he needed to use English now.

Despite that, Ezra was unsure what it was he wanted when he ran into the study one morning from playing outside. "Ezra! Come...boy in the tree!"

The Southerner frowned. "Did one of the boys climb the tree?"

"Kee...no. Boy is..." Vin gestured, cupping one hand and slipping the other into it. "In tree."

"There's a boy inside a tree?" That made no sense.

Vin nodded insistently. He grabbed Ezra's hand. "Come and see."

Ezra trailed along behind the boy to a large oak that somehow managed to flourish despite the sometimes scorching desert heat. "See?" Vin crouched and pointed to the roots, which arched over a dark hole. It seemed to be just large enough for a medium-sized dog or similar creature to enter; Ezra decided that was probably all Vin saw and the boy's imagination had gotten the best of him.

However, on closer examination, Ezra was astonished to discover a pair of huge, tearfilled hazel eyes staring back at him from the dirty fissure. Within seconds, those eyes emerged, revealing themselves to belong to a tiny boy knee high to a grasshopper. His raven hair was filthy and matted, and the rags that covered his scrawny body couldn't quite be called clothing. Bruises peeked through holes in the rags. He pressed himself up against Ezra's chest, burrowing close. A tiny voice drifted up from somewhere close to Ezra's armpit. "Where's my mama?"

"Aw, hell." It was going to be an interesting day.

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Kee! Kee, haamee No! No, please!

Ke nu u nakisupana?itu I don't understand you.

Nu nahnia tsa Vinninnewah My name is Vinninnewah.

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End file.
